This Other Eden (5 page)

He
had left Mortemouth at seven on Dan Trigg's fastest horse, Daybreak, a powerful
tawny-colored stallion who could race the wind. He was keenly aware of the
importance of his mission, to ride to Exeter and to return with the excise men
who paid him handsomely to keep his eyes and ears opened and report to them any
illegal operations which took place off the rugged North Devon coast. He had
performed this questionable duty for three years, not through any sense of
moral outrage. On the contrary, those who wanted to buy his silence could do so
simply by leaving a six- or eight-gallon cask of rum behind the small cottage
at Mortemouth. But after the "run," if no gift was left, the names of
the offending parties were carried directly to Exeter to the excise men, and
the culprits mysteriously found themselves on their way to Plymouth to elect to
stand trial or join the Navy.

There
was an enterprise to Russell which was respected in most quarters. He would
always be paid by one end or the other, a simple, workable way for a young man always
to have the assurance of guineas in his pocket.

As
he urged Daybreak through the night, he felt almost overcome with excitement.
No small fisherman this. No petty seaman bringing in more than fish in his
nets. His target now was Lord Thomas Eden.

As
the powerful horse galloped easily, Russell Locke slid his whip into the slot
alongside his saddle. His hair, black and full and long, lay plastered with
sweat against the sides of his face. The road was deserted in all directions, a
lonely stretch, leading to the even lonelier moors. He had The Hanging Man to
look forward to a few miles ahead, the last public house before he crossed
Exmoor. He would stop there for a quick pint to ease his parched throat and his
doubts.

Daybreak
snorted in confusion, bewildered that speed was no longer required of him.
Russell let the reins go limp, gave the horse his head. Now sitting well back
in the saddle, his mind returned to his unfortunate sister, locked up in the
Keep like a common criminal, facing the whipping oak come morning.

A
knot formed in his throat, not so much out of pity for Marianne, but rather
suddenly seeing himself in her same predicament, feeling in his imagination his
own arms being bound around the whipping oak, his back laid bare.

The
reins fell from his hands. Engrossed in the coils of this new disquiet, he
stared, unseeing into the night, unaware that Daybreak had wandered ofiE the
road in search of fresh young grass to nibble.

The
self-induced fright gave him even greater pause for thought. He knew about the
tunnel and the secret staircase. Was Lord Eden so foolish to think that a
secret like that could be kept in a village the size of Mortemouth? He also
knew its purpose and intent. Obviously Marianne had made the same discovery and
had come to the same conclusion. He couldn't be held responsible for her
stupidity. He was certain that Lord Eden had given her a chance to prove
herself loyal. And obviously she had turned down that chance. He smiled weakly
into the night. Perhaps the humiliation would do her good, bring her down from
her great airs.

Still,
she was his sister, favored of their father. He leaned forward until his
forehead was resting against the neck of the horse. Oh, God, what to do? He
longed for Jane, the middle sister who had been the closest comfort he'd ever
known, simple Jane who had always sided with him against the favored Marianne,
who, four years ago, no longer able to stand the unfair competition, had bid
him a tearful good-bye and had gone off to London to make her own way in the
world.

The
main outline of his dilemma was this. He knew there was profit to be had by
completing his journey to Exeter. But there might be greater profit by spending
the night at The Hanging Man and returning to Mortemouth on the morning, dirty,
exhausted, and empty-handed. His father would never forgive him, but then his
father need never know. There would be ways of letting Lord Eden know of his
abortive journey, and in anticipation of his future silence, the Lord of the
Castle might find it within his power to be very generous.

These
thoughts occupied him completely. Daybreak wandered farther and farther afield,
clearly enjoying the feast of tender grass. And Russell, in his own way,
followed suit, slumped idly in the saddle, concentrating on nothing visible,
rather seeing himself standing before a most grateful Lord Eden, receiving a
full purse, lasting gratitude, and perhaps—and here his pulse quickened—a
trusted position inside the castle.

He
looked sharply up at the night sky and laughed aloud. Oh, Jesus, what beautiful
visions! Perhaps a horse of his own, decent and varied clothes, always a full
belly, and an endless supply of coin.

With
a kind of fury, his decision was forming. Divine justice perhaps. Even that!
The spoiled arrogant younger sister, the pretty child who had chased off one
sister and made life unbearable for a brother, who had had her way in all
things since the day of her birth was now providing the opened door through
which he might step into paradise.

At
that moment the catastrophe was inevitable, though there was pain inside his
chest, a fundamental frailty which prohibited him from being a totally good man
or a totally bad one, the burgeoning weight of indecision, like a runner with
lifted foot, but without the relief of the final command to bring the foot
down.

He
grew aware of his wayward horse straying into the night. He jerked on the reins
with such force that the horse whinnied in pain. It was a good sound, a
comforting sound. He pulled the animal's head about and dug his heels into the
flesh of the underbelly. Eagerly he lifted the whip into the air and brought it
down with a resounding slap across the broad rump. The horse shot forward under
the duress of pain, reached the road with flying hooves, confused and angry by
the whims of the young man who straddled him.

With
a kind of delirium in his eyes, his cheeks drained of color, his long hair
flying backward in the night, Russell urged the animal forward, searching the
horizon for The Hanging Man, for respite, for relief from his agonizing doubts.

Even
after the horse reached top speed, Russell forced him on, shouting, "Faster!
Faster!" Out of the wind whistling by his head, he thought he heard a
young girl's screams.

"Are
you well?" Ragland whispered. He bent close to the bolted oak door,
pressing a linen against his face to keep from gagging on the odor of rotting
flesh.

Although
he had wanted to go directly to his quarters and the sweet silent company of
his charge, Elfie, he had stopped by the Keep on his way back from his
disturbing visit to Mortemouth. A man did have responsibilities to his friends,
duties. Stealthily he had let himself in through the outer door and now stood
in total blackness. The odor was that of death itself.

Again
he bent his head low and clamped the linen more closely about his nostrils.
"Marianne? Can you hear me?"

No
response. The primary source of his distress came from the fact that he knew
Hartlow Locke and his daughter as intimately as family. Indeed on occasion,
with the exception of his beloved little Elfie, he looked upon them as such,
had spent many happy hours in their cottage.

Before
now the prisoners he had locked up in this stinking place had been men,
full-grown and brutish, whose crimes of theft, murder, and insubordination had
been clear-cut and worthy of punishment. Then, too, most had been strangers.

Again
he leaned close in apprehension. "Marianne?" He waited, listening,
his ear cocked to one side. Asleep? Not likely. Dead? Pray God, no!

He
looked quickly over his shoulder. What he was doing was in itself a crime.
Those assigned to the charnel house were to be given no respite, no succor.
Still he had to make sure she was well, a mere child who in the past had
charmed him vdth her beauty, had charmed all for that matter.

Save
one! Old Ragland glowered at the bolted door, a look of anger crossing his
face. Generally he was completely loyal to Lord Eden, supportive to a fault.
The present Lord Eden was not a bad man. He was weak perhaps, certainly bored,
and arrogant. But not evil. That was why this extreme punishment was so out of
character.

Again
he called out "Marianne!" his voice still louder, throwing caution to
the wind, realizing that if he didn't take care he would attract the attention
of the night watchmen.

Still
no answer. The small cell behind the locked door gave back only silence. Mother
of God, what was he to do? He could not close his eyes tonight knowing what lay
suffering behind this door. The poor child wasn't even aware that she'd lost
her father to madness. His despair and guilt mounting, Ragland suddenly cried
out, full-voiced, "Marianne. Answer me!

Still
there was no response. The old man thrust his chin forward, allowing the linen
to fall to the floor. His hands were on the bolts, ready to slide them
backward, when suddenly he heard a disturbance at the outer door. Quickly he
fell back against the far wall, safe in darkness. The heavy outer door swung
open, revealing a splash of lantern light and the hooded sleepy-eyed faces of
two night watchmen.

"In
here you say you heard it?" asked one, holding the lantern aloft.

"Here
it was, a man's cry—" At that instant the stench reached their noses.
Wildly they waved their hands before them as though such a simple gesture were
capable of cleansing the air.

"My
God," gasped one of them.

"Come
on," said the one holding the lantern in an anguished voice. "Ain't
nuthin' here but the dead Cornwellian and he ain't likely to be crying out. As
for the girl—"

But
the other persisted. "I swear I heard—" he began, then broke off in a
choking tone.

"All
you heard was her," the other scolded. "Gawd! The whipping oak will
be paradise after this." Waving his hand in a gesture of desperation, he
added, "Back! Ain't no man alive in here."

With
incredible swiftness they stumbled out of the door, closing it rapidly behind
them.

Old
Ragland, who had denied himself breath during the short interruption, turned
his face to the wall, gasping. The beating of his heart increased. He realized
how narrow had been his escape. He could not stay a moment longer. His own
position was at stake. If she was dead, so be it. If she survived the night and
the morning, he would assist her. And it wasn't as though she were truly alone.
She still had her brother, Russell, a fine boy, who would go to any lengths to
help her.

He
found comfort in this thought, at least enough to enable him to walk past the
bolted and silent door. He thought how much better his sleep would be if only
he had received one brief reassurance from her.

But
it was not to be, and he adjusted rapidly to its absence and moved quickly
across the blackness to the outer door. Stealthily he opened it a crack, peered
in both directions of the inner courtyard. He closed the door behind him and
moved rapidly along the castle wall. Where the wall angled to accommodate the
Great Hall, he spied the bobbing lantern of the watchman.

At
the same moment the man spied Ragland. "Who passes?" he called out
sharply, again lifting the lantern high above his head.

Ragland
drew a deep breath and tried to give his voice an ease of manner. "A
highwayman," he called back, in a feeble attempt at humor, "come to
loot the castle."

The
dull-witted watchman stopped in his tracks, as though he believed the absurd
answer. Then, coming still closer and upon seeing Ragland, he laughed heartily
in relief. "You're up and about late, sir," he scolded. "Gave me
a start, you did."

Ragland
greeted him with a cordial slap on the shoulder. "Just a breath of air,
that's all. No sleeping on a night hot as this."

The
man concurred. "Did you just pass the Keep, sir?" he asked.

Ragland
shook his head.

The
man grinned. "Not that I blame you." He stepped closer. "But I
swear I heard a man's voice there."

Ragland
dismissed the notion out of hand. "Not likely," he comforted. "The
only man in that place has long since met his Maker. God rest his soul."